ORSI
ITALIANI MAGAZINE
Sebastian's
buttocks
A
short story by
Jan
Vander Laenen (jan.vanderlaenen@skynet.be)
"The phrase 'kiss my arse' has an
ancient origin connected with devil worship. (...) In earlier times it
referred to the way witches were believed to pay homage to the devil,
who had a face on his buttockless rump, with a mouth in place of an
anus."
(Desmond MORRIS, Bodywatching)
No,
if someone were to ask me straight up what the most beautiful, the
most perfect thing on this earth is, I would not immediately start
intellectualistically propounding on, say, the magnificence of
Mozart's last three symphonies, or the tender tragedy of Watteau's
fêtes galantes, or the absolute harmony amongst garden, architecture
and interiors at Vaux-le-Vicomte; no, without the slightest doubt, I
would resolutely answer:
Sebastian's backside!
Now, I would make so bold as,
without false modesty, to regard myself as a true connoisseur of
arses; yes, just as a sommelier is specialised in judging and tasting
wine, so I accord myself the title of fesselier, in short, someone who
throughout his entire adult life has observed, pawed and licked men's
arses les fesses and graded them according to form, perfume and
taste.
And hence, as regards form, I
distinguish for instance noble backsides, viz. backsides whose crack
is a tad too long in relation to the breadth of each separate buttock,
or that oh-so-American hard-rock backside, a pair of hunky buttocks
that, ultimately, seem to be mounted somewhat too low on the nether
region of the back, or Herculean backsides, or quite simply (and a
little bit my favourite) shamelessly fat backsides.
On the other hand, the perfume and
taste are often (and I believe I can draw this conclusion after years
of research in the field) in close correlation to race, skin-colour
and eyes and, above all, eating habits. It is hardly necessary to
point out that the arse zone of a blond Dutchman not infrequently
smoulders of cheese and dairy produce, whilst that of a Mediterranean
man will have an odour more of fruity olive oil and basil, or that of
the dweller of the Maghreb has the resolutely intoxicating parfum of
the exotic spices that can be bought on a Sunday at the Brussels South
Market.
So far so good, with this little
introduction I hope to have convinced you that, as a fesselier, I have
a certain competence and that my flattering utterings regarding
Sebastian's backside are not to be laughed off as such-and-such a
drunken quip.
And who, I hear you ask, is
Sebastian, actually? Sebastian is quite simply, without a doubt, the
most erotically inspiring Flemish man I know which is not exactly
difficult, one might ironically reply, since the most eye-catching
male specimens that populate the streets of our proud Flemish cities
and the bars of Brussels are after all often foreign. With the
exception of that infamous Sebastian, then, for, yes, when I first
encountered him a year or so ago as the new barman behind the counter
at the cafe 'Le Pre'texte', I actually for a moment was frightened I
would fall prey to an attack of Stendhal's syndrome, in short
wooziness and a dull pain, which people can experience when looking at
a classic work of art. Was it his young, athletic body? Was it his
allure, which I would describe as energetic, stubborn and elegant? Was
it his sharp, black eyes, which suffered from what the Italians so
melodiously call lo strabismo di Venere, a gaze that nearly
unnoticeably squints but, in short, thereby draws all its mystery and
charm? Or was it oh, yes, I am incorrigible his buttocks, buttocks
encased in a tight pair of jeans, which, in terms of form, held the
middle ground between a Hercules and an Apollo backside, and thus a
somewhat rare backside, which, in a mood of vulgarity, I should define
as a particularly successful cross between a small boy's arse and a
broad, spreading, man's bum.
Now and I almost forgot to say
this despite his decidedly tasty-looking exterior, Sebastian is also
an extremely pleasant person, or call it flirty out of commercial
considerations, and partly due to his winks, ironic smiles and the
occasional dirty remark, he managed after a single visit to cafe 'Le
Pre'texte' to win me over to such an extent that I decided there and
then to make the aforementioned location my new drinking-hole. So, I
spent entire evenings there, I drank one beer after another as I sat
undressing Sebastian with my eyes and constantly waited for that
supreme moment in which he would have to bend over behind the bar to
reach for a glass from the lowest shelf. At that time, I felt myself a
bit of a dirty old man, a forty-year-old drunkard, although Sebastian
on many occasions impressed on me that forty really wasn't that old
and, besides, I looked young for my age which I naturally never
believed: I too have a mirror at home.
One evening, however, now some six
months ago, the sight of all that lovely stuff became too much for me.
It was around two in the morning. I was the last customer, the
curtains of the cafe has already been drawn closed and Sebastian,
tired from an honest day's work, was counting his tips. Was it the
endless beers that I had again been drinking, was it a little voice in
me that that I heard daring me to do more in my life? the fact is
that I heard myself uttering the following words, 'Oh! My darling
Sebastian, I would give a fortune to be able to look upon your bare
arse with my very own eyes.'
Sebastian, scarcely surprised,
looked at me for a long moment, and then responded with a line that
seemed like a runaway from a modern, capitalistic fairy-tale, 'A
fortune's not really necessary, but for twenty Euro, your wish will be
granted.'
I wavered a moment was he joking,
or was he serious? but then I went ahead and got my wallet out of my
trouser pocket, removed a twenty-Euro banknote and put it down
ostentatiously before his eyes. And Sebastian looked at the banknote
for a second with a mixture of eagerness and disdain, then emerged
from behind the bar, stood in front of me and, with his back turned
towards me, slowly, taunt-ing-ly slowly, lowered his jeans and his
underpants.
Of course, out of pure excitement, I
felt the blood bubble up to my temples, but, because there is nothing
more frustrating than looking without being able to touch, I heard the
following words utter forth from me, 'Oh! My darling Sebastian, I
would give a fortune to be able to touch your bare arse with my very
own hands.'
'A fortune's not really necessary,
but for twenty Euro, your wish will be granted,' came his answer.
And for the price of twenty Euro, I
thus began softly to caress the peachy down of his backside, and I
squatted behind him and gently parted his two muscular buttocks in
order to wonder at his yet so innocent-looking little arsehole. But,
since there is nothing more frustrating than touching without being
able to taste, I heard the following words utter from my lips, 'Oh! My
darling Sebastian, I would give a fortune to be able to kiss your bare
arse with my very own mouth.'
'A fortune's not really necessary,
but for twenty Euro, your wish will be granted,' he answered for the
third time.
As becomes a true fairly-tale,
however, my wallet was now empty. And for a trice I played with the
idea of quickly running to a cash machine, when it suddenly struck me
that that afternoon I had purchased a lottery scratchcard.
And 'Oh! My darling Sebastian,' I
now heard myself say, 'a cannot give you another twenty Euro, but I
can give you the chance of winning a great fortune with your
buttocks.'
I held the still unscratched lottery
card before him. And Sebastian took it, laid it on the bar, turned his
back toward me and gently leant forward, resting his hands on a
barstool. And 'God, let now time stand still, please let me die, for I
cannot experience a more blissful moment in my whole sinful
existence,' was the thought that whirled through my head during this
quite utterly intimate moment between Sebastian and me, between a
fresh twenty-year-old, with just the most beautiful backside in the
world, and a decrepit, forty-year-old boozer. And, yes, if
Jean-Baptiste Grenouille should ask me in the hereafter how I would
describe the perfume of that boy's arse, I should probably lyrically
answer: like freshly milled pepper on the fleece of an perfectly
black, full-blooded stallion.
And the scratchcard? Shucks, after
the blissful moments spent between Sebastian's legs, I returned home
in the rain and so I have no idea whether or not it was a winning
ticket and, if so, how much it was worth. The fact is that, upon my
next visit to 'Le Pre'texte' the next evening, I encountered a new
barman behind the counter, who informed me that Sebastian had served
his notice and left to embark on a great round-the-world trip.
Jan Vander Laenen
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